


Defy the Dark

by missbeizy



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, Fantasy, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A historical Italian AU written in 100-word drabble form.  Some non-consensual sex content (not the main pairings).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defy the Dark

The ship that brings Dominic over unfriendly seas tells nothing of the land it will leave him in. The city is effulgent shades of green, brown, and red. The interior of the richer places yields purples, reds, and blues that he has never seen. He doesn't know how they achieve the color and he cannot ask; he doesn't speak their language and even if he could, it wouldn't matter. He's broken and silent from the rough treatment of the men on board the ship and he has yet to come across a kind face or a pair of gentle hands.

*

He understands immediately that nothing good can come of this. Being kidnapped for undisclosed reasons and shipped so far from home that he can't find a familiar sight cannot be a good indication. When he's alone he breaks his silence and whimpers or murmurs a prayer. There is no response to either appeal. He rubs the bruised and marked places on his body and wishes for clean water. But this doesn't last for long; he is taken into the crowd and thrown up in front of them. There is shouting and eyes all over him. He is one of dozens.

*

He isn't accustomed to any of it; the cruelty and the pain that follows, the different classes so closely intertwined, the way such beautiful language can be made into harsh commands. He is, however, accustomed to being picked out of a crowd. His mother has playfully remarked since before he can remember that he's gotten a double helping of ears from God--enough to make up his and his sister's ears. The thought makes him cry because it's a reminder; he supposes he won't see either of them again. When next the men touch him, he tries to fight back.

*

Dominic learns words here and there. He knows the words for "water" and "food" and "gold." He knows that the port through which his ship came is called Rialto. He knows the warehouses along the waterfront are called fondacis. The streets start inward from the pier, dirt-packed and filthy, because these people throw their refuse from windows above to rot below. He knows that the only being interested in this is the pig, which he sees from high windows, snuffling amongst the stinking piles. He knows that the people ride on horses and wear tall shoes to avoid the garbage.

*

There are days when Dominic isn't forced into the dark, spicily scented upper rooms to be pawed and torn. He supposes, and rightly so, that his body needs time to heal. Most of the men that come have nothing in common; but a great deal of them must be very angry, Dominic thinks. His body is a canvas for them to smear their anger upon. He sits quietly and wonders about things: running away, his strange ability to remain silent when they tear his tunic and push into him. But mostly he wonders how he has managed to stay sane.

*

He learns the advantage of making friends with the other young men. Servants watch over them during the hours that they are let out on the veranda--the liago is what they call it. The other boys are quiet like he is, but all to varying degrees. As soon as the servants settle with a cheap bottle of wine and a deck of greasy playing cards, the boys talk more. It's difficult, trying to explain he can't speak Italian. But he manages to discern that there are several others that cannot, either. This is a very slender strand of relief.

*

There is a night when Dominic realizes this is his life. He sits on rumpled sheets that reek of unwashed flesh and semen. His scalp burns where the hair was yanked carelessly. He licks blood from the corner of his mouth and pulls his tunic on with weak hands. The smell coming in through the cracks around the sealed window's edges is of seawater and ash. He's escorted shortly after to the boys' sleeping quarters. One of them, who speaks a few words of Russian and has talked to Dominic before, crawls in beside him and they hold one another.

*

He becomes aware through conversation with the others that many things are happening that involve the city politically. There is a war looming, a war to maintain occupation of the city Constantinople. He has heard that name and knows vaguely the importance of the city. He understands now that he is in a city called Venice. He is in the country of Italy. The truth should shock him, but he's so numb and changed that there is little comfort or revelation in the information. The words mean little: Mehmed, Lodi, Turks. At night he dreams of snow and his mother.

*

The name of the young man that sometimes sleeps next to Dominic is Orlando. During stolen moments they exchange the few words of each other's languages that they know. Dominic learns a good bit of Italian from the dark-haired and willowy limbed boy. They become friends of a sort, though Dominic finds it very hard to give anything in his Venetian life such a positive label. Gradually they learn each other's schedules and come to comfort each other after a night's work. Dominic learns from Orlando that his eyes and compact body have made him a favorite amongst the patrons.

*

At first it seems pointless to learn anything of the city. But Dominic decides that it can only help him; sooner or later he'll be able to get away and knowledge of the area would do away with some of his ignorance. Orlando tells him that Venice is called the "queen of the seas" because of its trade routes between Asia and Europe. He learns that most of northeastern Italy is part of the Venetian realm and under a government of ambassadors. He learns that he is the property of one of the most famous brothels in the city proper.

*

One night as they lie together Orlando puts his mouth on Dominic's. He intends for the gesture to stop Dominic's tears but instead it seems to scare him still. Orlando apologizes, horrified at the way Dominic's body tenses. The reality is that Dominic is more confused than revolted; the only kisses he has ever received have been followed by violence. There is comfort in Orlando's arms and Orlando's melodious voice, but Dominic has yet to understand the comfort that might lie in his kisses. He gathers Orlando's slim body to his chest. He doesn't have the words to apologize properly.

*

His dreams of snow are resilient. It's amazing to him that they can withstand the Mediterranean climate. Russia is vast and frozen; and thus things are made to endure. And even those things that don't endure remain trapped and bound by the snow. The garbage doesn't fester in Russia; it freezes. The cold creeps in everywhere; manages to find cracks even in the walls of the house of God. He would be amused by the ironic contrast between home and Venice if he weren't distracted by endless, painful nights. He wonders if his mother believes he is dead or alive.

*

There is a commotion one evening that catches the attention of everyone. Dominic hears screams and eventually sees a small crowd form in the main lobby from his spot near the door of the boy's quarters. On the shoulders of two men rests a stretcher; on that something is draped over with a sheet. In the very center of the white sheet is a soaked-through circle of blood. In the morning, Orlando tells him that one of the younger boys was killed by an overzealous signore. Money discreetly exchanges hands and the boys are threatened to keep quiet if questioned.

*

Something about the killing makes Dominic reckless. The danger inherent in brothel life is now real, and he finds it very hard to stay still. He has garnered a reputation of being pliant. He hasn't fought back in a very long time. But he starts giving cheek and resistance--and so he limps to his bed every night and endures sprained wrists and split lips with defiance.

When Orlando shakes his head at Dominic and demands, "What are you doing, Dominic? You are so foolish!" Dominic smiles and shrugs and plays with Orlando's silky curls until the talking dies down.

*

Dominic decides he isn't afraid of Orlando's kisses. He has been watching the boys and reasons that there is no violence between them and therefore no sense in assuming there would be violence in their beds. When he lays down that night he pulls Orlando close and puts his hands low on Orlando's hips. Orlando's translucent, chocolate eyes glitter and when Dominic brushes his mouth against Orlando's, they gently slide shut. They kiss for hours--rearranging use of tongue, teeth, and lips in dozens of complicated patterns. Dominic finally realizes the purpose; he now has something to look forward to.

*

There is a great variety in the men that pay for use of Dominic. He doesn't notice it at first and doesn't care to, but a combination of well-placed defiance and inner strength leads him to a more observatory nature. The more time that goes by the more types of men he sees. Most are darkly violent and want something small and willing to hold down; others want to lay still and be held down themselves; others are pathetically desperate and don't last more than a few minutes. He feels nothing, but deep down a powerful rage is being cultivated.

*

Greek or Latin makes for better linguistic currency than Italian in many cases, Dominic learns. He pays attention and he adapts well, because many prayers he knows in both Greek and Russian. Memories of the countryside float back; choice bits of gray and green fringed by the hazy light of cheap animal fat candles. The monk with the heavily accented Russian and the round belly teaches him the Lord's prayer. But he is not in that place; he is many thousands of miles away and these memories are as distant as the stars. Perhaps he is merely beginning to forget.

*

"The governors still have control here," Orlando whispers in the middle of the night, hands petting down Dominic's belly. "The others, they try and flaunt their wares --Florence, Milan. Pah. They are held around the throat by the wealthy families that own them. There is no equality for men there. Here at least there is stability." Dominic wills Orlando's hands lower and shudders when they go. "Merchants and the Council, that is what makes Venice unique."

Dominic smirks and replies, "You have too much faith. We are the playthings of wealthy men." 

Orlando says, "We can be much, much more."

*

The flirtatious notes of the lute accompany the gentle tinkle of the Virginal's keys, and the combined sound teases Dominic's ears. He strains his hearing to stay with the noise and succeeds somewhat over the low chatter of the boys around him. Through the narrowly tipped arched windows he watches the indifferent moon disappear behind the canal. The sight of the men and boy patrons --bedecked finely in stockings, short belted jackets, tunics with bold trim, and swords --seduces him because they are a glimpse of grander things; freer things. He's beginning to think that maybe Orlando has a point.

*

"I have seen the Great Council of Venice process along the Molo. I have seen High Mass at the very foot of the San Marco altar. And yes, the merchant ships striking out over the Adriatic Sea. The water is like glass, Dominic." Orlando's voice is like poetry. He won't stop talking, won't risk allowing Dominic to recall the evening. It had been particularly horrible. "Those were good times. When my cousins and I used to sneak out on hot afternoons to gamble in taverns and drink bad wine. We knew they'd drag us back, but we did it anyway."

*

Weeks pass and Dominic's reputation shifts subtly. His more submissive patrons turn to younger, softer boys. Crueler men are sent his way instead because they can enjoy his flying fists and biting mouth. He takes silent pleasure in the scattered occurrence of his blows finding their marks before he can be stifled and violated. He begins to enjoy their fury and rises above the crimson pain it culminates in --simply because he now knows that he can _make_ them react. This small measure of power asserted over them goes to Dominic's brain like fine wine; and still Orlando doesn't understand.

*

Dominic discourages Orlando's questions with lovemaking. It's never rushed between them; there's enough of that with their customers. A night can start with kissing and end there, or it can go on to needy couplings that involve rubbing and the slippery grasp of fingers. Dominic savors Orlando's low whimpers and compares them to a cat's contented mewls. He likes best holding Orlando's trembling body from behind while working the Italian with his fist until Orlando bucks into their blankets and sobs once, spending himself over Dominic's fingers. He wonders, though, why Orlando never overwhelms him the way he overwhelms Orlando.

*

The Venetian winter is mild compared to what Dominic is used to. It is heavily damp and despite the healthy breeze, it is dreary. Everything is chilly and quiet; the sky is a gray frothy mist. Dominic thinks it's funny that everything in Venice is softer except for the most important part --his forced occupation. Ah, to be in one of the most impressive cities in the world and be banned from all its grandeur. His rage couples with regret, forming an impressive blend. He wonders what the masters would do if he stopped tending his wounds, or refused food.

*

There is a morning when Dominic wakes and sees that Orlando is gone. Life skips a beat; the absence goes to the very core of him. The loss twists his chest up in knots. The explanation he gets from the others is that Orlando was finally able to buy his freedom. He doesn't understand, at first, why this is a betrayal, even though his heart tells him so. Orlando never spoke of this, never told Dominic that it could be done. Dominic cannot comprehend Orlando's special circumstance because he was never made privy to it; nor will he ever be.

*

He goes a little crazy that night. A young man with a thick, unidentifiable accent wants the services of Dominic's mouth; and when the man slides his fingers through Dominic's hair to pull him further inward, Dominic grabs the man's right hand and snaps it backwards. Amidst the howls of pain and blows from the man's uninjured hand there is a commotion in the hall that quickly spills into the room --lanterns bob in the hands of heavily muscled guards that grab Dominic and pull him roughly upward. The ugly light illuminates the signore's hand, twisted at an unnatural angle.

*

It's a serious offense and he knows it. Is it enough to get him killed or sold? The reaction of the masters is queer to him. He doesn't understand what's going on. They lock him, bound around the wrists and ankles, in a room off to the side of the lower offices. He can hear them talking in rapid, frustrated tones, but cannot catch any specific word; they often lapse into dialects he doesn't recognize. He's prepared for physical punishment and prepared to die. Hours pass. New voices chime in; others fall away, and still no one comes for him.

*

They push him forwards until he's on his knees. There is a circle of bright lanterns around him. An immediate slap whips his face to the side before he can steel himself against it.

"Filth," the master hisses. "You've done your last performance here." Dominic looks around at the crowd; one of the men reminds him of the one he injured, only older. That very man steps forward and grabs Dominic by his hair. 

"Do you know what you have done? Do you!" Dominic growls and tries to get away. "My son is a violinist. And you have ruined him!"

*

They force him to wash and dress. He's taken back to the office where the crowd was, but only a single master remains there. "Money will not quiet this man. He's a very influential banker with a good reputation. You've picked the wrong night to give cheek, boy." The master stuffs Dominic's tunic with personal papers that Dominic cannot read. "For your transgression, you are to serve their household. For as long as they want, and in whatever manner they choose. You are their property. And while this is an embarrassment, I can't say I'm sad to see you go..."

*

There is a period of several days in which Dominic receives the punishment that the brothel didn't give out. At the hands of the banker, under the man's own roof, it is much worse than it would have been. The banker has no interest in keeping Dominic looking well for customers; indeed, he is filled with rage like vinegar, and his large hands are quickly splattered with Dominic's blood. When the beating stops, Dominic is cleaned up and given clothes that are only slightly better than his brothel attire. He's told to do whatever is asked of him without question.

*

He stands with the new servants. Members of the house wander in from various rooms. The staff is there simply for the sake of learning their betters' faces. The banker's wife and also several cousins stroll past, sparing the employees nary a glance. The violinist son is not there. Instead, a pleasant voice with the banker's accent tickles Dominic's ears. This boy is young --immaculately dressed, brown hair and watery-vibrant green eyes: beautiful.

"My youngest son, William," says the banker. Green eyes pass straight through the crowd and lock with his own. Around Dominic, Venice grinds to a shuddering halt.

*

The staff is only marginally more friendly than Dominic's new masters, but this doesn't surprise him. He speaks only enough of their language to get by, he looks awkward and wide-shouldered in their dress, and he has suffered far too much cruelty to be engaging. What does surprise him is the manner of work they put him to: serving meals, cleaning floors, and some carpentry. What had he expected? Something more humiliating, he supposes. He sleeps on a bed of coarse straw at the back of the kitchens. There is a very foul draft. But he is, above all, alive.

*

One of the maids has the interesting talent of imitating birdcalls. Dominic eavesdrops on her and her friends as they sit huddled together, trying to guess what bird the girl is copying. One particular birdcall sucks Dominic into memory; he remembers journeys to the far reaches of Russian countryside. That bird singing its song and his legs slicing through deep grass as he rode with his father from patch to patch of damp forest. So far from the gray riverside hovels they often had to visit. There was an earthy quality to those afternoons that Dominic has not felt since.

*

The second time they make eye contact, Dominic is surprised. The first gaze that passed between them was a fluke, surely--because he was new, because he was funny looking. It had nothing to do with anything personal. So when he leans over to fill William's half-empty glass of wine and William looks up at him, he freezes. He shouldn't be under those eyes; he's supposed to be invisible, not receiving recognition unless he's done something wrong. But everyone is drunk up and down the table and he guesses it's permissible, because they don't notice. Dominic wishes he hadn't noticed.

*

Sent stumbling from the bedroom of the banker into the hands of a richly dressed manservant, Dominic refuses to make a noise. They pass the banker's wife's sitting room and the chocolate color of her hair catches Dominic's gaze. She narrows her eyes at him just before looking away. She knows exactly what has just happened. Just before Dominic is locked away he sees William blustering in through the front doors flanked by men dressed after his fashion. Dominic's eyes fall on the cream-colored stockings that sculpt William's boyish calves. William looks over and notices Dominic for the third time.

*

Weeks pass in relative peace. The banker grows tired of Dominic because the boy offers no interesting rebellion to his harsh bed manner. The attempt works well and Dominic's presence is requested less and less--to the point where seeing the banker's valet in the servants' quarters' doorway is unexpected. Late at night when the whispering dies down Dominic spreads the intangible pages of his memory out flat, fingers pressing the running ink in hopes of retaining something, anything of the life he left behind. What else does he have? Dreams of sandy-haired green-eyed banker's sons don't amount to much.

*

He's not prepared for the stranger at the door, the firm hand on his wrist, or the journey to hallways he has been warned to stay clear of. It's especially odd when he realizes they have left him in the middle of a library. He hasn't seen a collection of such books since the last time his visited a monastery and--the memory swims away, trailing air bubbles to conceal its intended direction. He waits, alone, dreading the worst. Worrying that perhaps the banker isn't through with him. The gentle, smoky smell of paper and beeswax candles lulls his senses.

*

His shoulders lift and his body stiffens upon hearing someone enter the antechamber to the library and close the outer doors. A cringe settles ice-heavy in the pit of his stomach. In through the second set of doors wanders a boy an inch shorter than himself, calves hose-clad and torso jacketed in fine velvet. The lantern light glints off the silvery color of the tunic's trim and Dominic can't help but feel something, something strange and new, upon seeing the banker's son this way. And they are so very alone. What if the boy is the same as his brother?

*

Before the servant left he had started up a fire in the grate to Dominic's right. By the time William and Dominic stand with the library between them, the fire is crackling noisily, leaving Dominic's right side warm. William's presence goes far in warming the other. There is a moment, a heartbeat, wherein they look at each other directly. But Dominic remembers himself and shifts his gaze to William's shoulder. William takes a step forward, shoes clicking sharply and then more muffled as they encounter the carpet that covers the center portion of the floor. William is within fingers' reach.

*

He doesn't know what he wants from this. It's jumbled, like his memories, half-formed and yet somehow alive. The longing makes him shake. It rubs a sore spot into his soul until he feels like closing his eyes and plugging fingers in his ears. The implications of a meeting between them spiral: trails of fantasy that he deems pitiful--the outpourings of a naive and simple mind. There is also the irrefutable fact that he knows nothing of this boy that is technically his master. It matters not that the room seems to bend itself around them, seems to listen.

*

William takes a breath to speak and in that second Dominic holds his own breath. "This is your master's secondary library." The voice is rushed, husky, and lacks intimacy. And it is strangely unstable--in a way that almost hints at nervousness. "These shelves are to be replaced. The books need careful moving. You are to take them down in their respective order and pile them along that empty wall there."

Dominic nods and mutters an affirmative reply. William removes a single book--the first book of the first shelf--toys with it, and then hands it over to him.

*

Being alone has never felt quite as biting as it does when William is gone. Dominic stands in front of the long bookshelf, fingers still burning around the leather-bound volume in his fist. The title of the book, which he cannot read, glares its gold-leaf impression back at him. What he wonders about, though, is not the quick, impersonal instruction or even the edge of weakness within it that seemed to betray the boy's entire steely demeanor. What he clings to, what sends wildly inappropriate shivers down his spine, is that the words had come at him in flawless Russian.

*

He moves the books in stiff silence. It's not long before he's covered in dust and grime. The original book that William handed him sits apart from the others, and Dominic can't explain why he has already formed a sentimental attachment to it. He cracks a smile despite everything; mockingly likening himself to a maid that treasures an intended's offerings down to the most insignificant. With force he takes the book and moves to place it at the front of the pile, but drops it instead. A tiny sheaf of parchment peeks out at him from beneath the bent cover.

*

The boldly printed Russian words read: "As long as the earth still turns, as long as the light is clear/ Lord, grant to everyone that which they lack/ To the wise grant a sound mind, for the coward procure a horse/ Give money to the contented and please don't forget about me/ I know you are capable of everything, I believe in your wisdom/ As the fallen soldier believes he will live again in paradise/ As every ear listens and believes in your silent words/ As we ourselves believe, not knowing what we create."

The paper crinkles between Dominic's fingers.

*

He tucks the lines of verse into his tunic. His mind races around the half dozen possible interpretations of the vaguely religious, vaguely mocking, vaguely inspiring words. It could be the translation. He has no idea what the original poet's language was. Surely not Russian. But the whole thing feels familiar, somehow. It's the last line, however, that stays with him the most. Perhaps the line about the fallen solider as well--

Perhaps he's also reading too far into the poem. A poet would enjoy that kind of thing, wouldn't he? Stomach churning, he goes back to the shelves.

*

Only so much of the job can be accomplished in a single evening. The vast size of the library only makes itself known over time, Dominic thinks. He's taken back to his quarters. All the while the paper under his tunic burns his flesh and he fancies it giving off a glow that will alert his masters to its presence. If only a discovery of such brilliance would happen, perhaps taking some of the pressure it lays upon him away. He curls up with the poem and reads it by moonlight. He tries to draw conclusions that remain hopelessly elusive.

*

The following evening Dominic finds himself exactly where he left off in the library. He's told in clipped, harsh Italian to speed up his work. Angry and vulnerable, he allows himself to feel for a split second that if William had intended that poem for him, it should mean the man cared, and if he cared, he would do something to make Dominic's life easier. The self-pity passes under the stress of labor, and Dominic chastises himself for thinking like a boy. What is a noble's son to do to help a servant without compromising everything his life stands for?

*

By the end of the evening he's managed to move the entire first shelf. Without allowing himself time to pause he moves on to the next. The oil lamps that dot the corners of the room in combination with the scattered candles cast an eerie dance of light and shadow that writhes along the walls and Dominic's body. He shoves up the sleeves of his tunic--as short as they are--and ignores the sweat and filmy residue on his skin. Breathing heavily, Dominic tilts his face to the heavens and wets his lips. This is how William finds him.

*

Caught off guard, Dominic stands very still. He puts down an armful of books and then stands at respectful attention, eyes on William's sword belt.

"You've done well." Praise, though it comes this time Russian, has become an entirely foreign concept to Dominic. "Why don't you speak?" And William, the picture of young perfection, steps closer. 

Dominic is silent. He fears and is unwilling to admit it. William puts two and two together. "You may answer me in Russian. In fact, I'm going to insist that you do so from now on." 

Heart racing, Dominic nods. "As you wish, master."

*

Dominic is full of questions. Is William here to escort him back downstairs? Is there another chore waiting for him? Is the young man simply curious about the brothel boy who broke his brother's wrist? To check on his progress with the books, Dominic decides finally.

Circling closer, William says, "When they told me why they had brought you here, I was shocked." 

Dominic's skin goes cold. Surely this cannot be matter of vengeance? But why not, another voice questions. Perhaps there is great deal of love between these two brothers. Perhaps you've offended more people than you originally thought.

*

A grin curls William's mouth. What that change in expression does to his face and those transparent peridot-green eyes is a small miracle to Dominic's starved emotions. The longing he felt for William the previous evening comes flooding back twofold.

"I had to meet the boy who dealt justice in such an unknowing, spectacular fashion." Confused, Dominic says nothing. "I say this in confidence, of course, and I trust it will remain entirely between us. But my brother has been living a life that deserves no less an ill turn of fate than having his only talent taken from him."

*

Dominic sees the humor in this; can feel his natural instinct to laugh just beneath the surface. But to actually allow that in front of this man, regardless of the weight he just took of Dominic's shoulders? Easy to conceive of, impossible to execute.

Dominic schools his expression and speaks carefully, "I merely reacted. It was nothing but impulse." 

William, relieved by the reply, steps closer. "And do you regret your impulse?" 

Dominic becomes aware of William's body heat. "I don't know what answer you wish to have, master." 

William's eyes disappear behind short lashes. "I would have your honesty."

*

Dominic is thoroughly unnerved. William's physical presence unfurls its welcome; the scent coming off his clothes, the heat rising from his skin, the solid stance of his firm legs. Dominic shakes beneath his own shabby appearance.

"Naturally. Here I am indentured for the rest of my life. At the brothel, at least, there was the prospect of leaving, however distant," he finally answers, giving in to the command for truth. 

Pleasure flits across William's face. "Thank you," comes the gentle, contented reply. Dominic's stomach feels no surer than liquid in a sack--and twice as likely to evaporate.

*

"What's your name?"

The instability Dominic feels from the encounter works steadily on his composure. Beyond plain confusion, the longing becomes an urge. An urge--and what sort of urge, he asks himself. Don't think of that. Don't ever think of that. He drops his voice back to a more formal tone and tells William his first name. 

"I already knew," William admits. "I mean to say that I asked and was given an answer; I couldn't be sure if the answer was accurate. And your accent. Kiev, yes?" Dominic nods tightly. William stares as if he expects something more.

*

"Don't be afraid of me. I would not hurt you," is what William finally says when Dominic doesn't respond. "We have a bit of time. I know for a fact there are a few volumes of Russian work in this pile." There is a pause during which William catches Dominic's eye. "Do you like poetry?" And there is no question that William is referring to _the poem_ and not _poetry_ , although Dominic cannot explain how he knows this. Is it permissible that he--?

"Yes," he breathes, and forgets himself, and is staring into William's liquid eyes. "I love poetry."

*

After locking the library doors, William comes back into the light. Dominic continues to stand until he's told to relax. William hands him a book and asks him to start reading. The poetry that comes off the page is thick with images of paradise and life, of the eternal struggle to sustain some kind of prosperity against the odds of nature and the Devil. It's rife with the kind of spirit fostered in Russian children. It makes Dominic homesick. But the feeling comes to him trapped behind frosted glass; stripped of its familiar parts and alien to his current senses.

*

He begins to grow tired of his own voice. He pauses at the end of each verse, daring to glance up at the impressive view William strikes with his fine clothes and caramel skin. And each time William begs him to go on. So he does. The candles burn low, taking the minutes with them.

"I'll take you back downstairs, now, I think." At the formal tone, Dominic almost flinches. "It is quite late," William adds, softly. Dominic's heart pounds in response to the way William's eyes change color with sympathy. But sympathy is not what Dominic wants from him.

*

At the kitchen doors, William delays Dominic. He snakes a hand out and takes Dominic's wrist; and Dominic very nearly feels himself preparing to recoil and pull away. It is instinct, though it hurts William to see that expression, and he softens his hold. The pads of his fingers burn. He slips a stack of coins into the center of Dominic's palm and lets go.

"You may ask one of the girls who go to market every morning to bring back anything you need. As long as you have money they won't question you. The yellow-haired girl speaks some Russian."

*

The clink of the money comes as a swift kick against the surface of Dominic's soul. The reality connected with money in Dominic's life rekindles this connection.

William shakes his head. "All the servants receive some kind of payment. It's only fair." 

Dominic replies, "That is what this money is for?" 

William frowns. "This isn't a brothel," is his answer. 

Dominic bites his tongue before he can speak what immediately comes to mind. "Of course not, master. Forgive me." 

William stares at him because William can. The gaze leaves tingles, like fingers on Dominic's flesh. A man's fingers. William's fingers.

*

Alone, Dominic stands rooted to the floor. He raises a sweaty fist to his mouth, the money clenched there the last thing he cares about, and catches the scent of William just around his dirty wrist. Ashamed that the dirt may have rubbed off onto William's clean fingers, he grimaces. He swears that come morning he will ask the maid to bring him soap from the market. And when he does waylay her in a patch of surreally bright light that shines off the kitchen floor, she smiles and takes only half the money he offers. This warms him greatly.

*

Dominic keeps drinks filled at a party that night. During the day he has managed to take a bath and secure a new tunic--a vast improvement. After dinner the party retires to a room Dominic has never seen from the inside before. The crowd swims with people--exotic birds to his eye. They aren't real to him. All except one. Because when William makes his subtle entrance, decked in green and gold, and sees Dominic, scrubbed and wearing a tunic better cut to his form, the chatter of birds is overrun by the race of blood through his ears.

*

The party evolves slowly. It has everything to do, Dominic realizes, with the amount of alcohol consumed. Conversation rises, flowers into arguments, which then become scuffles that are quickly taken outside. Those guests that remain civil spread out from the main room to conquer others. Roaming cliques of homeless guests then commandeer occupied rooms, forcing their peers to move on. The masters of the house are as rowdy as their guests, if not more so. Dominic is quickly lost in the stifling crowd. He is, however, accosted for wine whenever his presence is noticed, so sneaking off isn't an option.

*

The difference, Dominic notes, is in the way these people talk. They can choose to argue for whatever position they've taken on social and political issues--at least in a neutral setting--as long as they're able to reference dozens of names, places, and dates to support their point. Two people with differing opinions will scoff at each other, and then laugh, and then move on to the next. This doesn't feel like the way things were done at home, though Dominic will admit he's having a difficult time remembering. He wonders which is better. He wonders which he'd choose.

*

He eavesdrops on a conversation about destiny. Words here and there are lost in the translation that hastily fires through his mind. Because of that, these words sound like magic--like slight of hand in the corner of his eye. He hovers near the young men, straining to hear, and only then realizes that William is among them. Before he can get free of their space, Dominic is recognized.

"Dominic," William calls, cheerfully drunk, voice high and engaging as if Dominic were an equal. "Would you be so kind as to aid me in my attempt to get exceedingly drunk?"

*

As Dominic refills William's glass he feels the stares of William's companions; a fair-skinned, deep-blue eyed youth and a softer, more brown and older looking man next to him.

"Is he yours?" ventures the blue-eyed boy. 

William laughs. "Have I suddenly become my brother's auxiliary, Elijah? Surely not," he replies. His eyes meet Dominic's over the decanter of wine. "He is his own, naturally." 

Embarrassed, Dominic risks only a short glance before slipping away. An infinitely dangerous sensation stirs when their eyes meet. And the part of Dominic that still holds fire longs for--may require--just such a danger.

*

It happens so subtly that Dominic himself scarcely notices. He thinks at first that the maid brought back more than he asked her to purchase. But surely he hadn't asked for soap of such high caliber. And what of the leaves of mint and the comb? On the day that the new tunic arrives, a lovely thing with a well-stitched hem and collar, he realizes all of it has been William's doing. Who else would select a tunic with threads that match the color of the flecks in Dominic's eyes? Who else would know the awkward cut of Dominic's body?

*

The work in the library is almost finished. William stays with Dominic for the better part of each evening and as these nights pass it becomes easier for Dominic. He can reply to William's questions without stammering. And William has many; about where Dominic is from, about the brothel and what exactly happened that night, about what Dominic endures even now under this very roof. Dominic doesn't want to tell William the truth and prays that he won't ask for details. Inevitably, William does press the question. Perfectly clear olive-green burns indentations into Dominic's soul, and he closes his mouth.

*

"Tell me," William implores, voice soft even though this is the third time. Were William any other member of the household Dominic would be beaten for his insolence. But as they sit there, postures as relaxed as possible for such a socially unequal pair--and with the fire dancing off Dominic's tight body--William desperately needs to know.

"The master," Dominic whispers, voice dying in his throat, "that is to say, your father, took of me what he felt was his to take the first week that I came to live here." 

William's forehead wrinkles with a sudden, unmistakable anger.

*

The rest of the evening passes with a hushed reading of poetry. And it's poetry of beauty, influenced by love of things that border on divine, sprung from worship and gratitude, laced with far-off concepts that may be a reward for a life well lived. When the candles burn themselves out and doors begin to close noisily all about the house, William escorts Dominic back downstairs. They bid each other goodnight at the usual spot just at the bottom of the stairs. The physical distance between them remains; it isn't natural for them to touch, so they simply do not.

*

"I'll do whatever I can to make sure it doesn't happen again, Dominic. They aren't just, the terms of your indenture. I recall..." William babbles. The reality rolls down Dominic's back like the trip fingertips. In his body lurks the impulse to reach out and use his hands to reassure William that the danger has passed.

Dominic does not know if that is true. He only knows that seeing this youth stare at him with pleading gentleness makes him crave contact he hasn't wanted since the days when Orlando waited for him, warm and hard, on their unforgiving sleeping mat.

*

There is nothing right in it, in standing there with walls of stone and marble the only witness to this quiet exchange. Nothing right in the way shadow lays on the slender cut of William's throat and shoulders, drawing Dominic's eye. Because when he lets that desire play itself out in his head, he is forced to imagine what such a thing might mean to him whose only experience with pleasure lies in _not_ being touched, in being passed over, in the relief that he will not be forced. Is there any way to draw a line between that and... _this_?

*

"Please," Dominic says finally. "I have to go. It's late."

William stirs, his slender chest filling with conscious breath, and steps back, hands falling. "Of course." 

Dominic turns to go and William's limbs constrict again. "Dominic!" he calls in a whispered shout, and Dominic hesitates. "The library will be finished by the end of this week," is what falls from William's lips before he can realize the statement is random and besides any point. 

Pink floods Dominic's ears slowly. He nods--the vision he presents catches the lantern light--and then moves away. William is left alone in the candlelight.

*

The new shelves fill the small library with a rich wood scent that Dominic finds wonderfully pleasing. He doesn't even mind piling the books back onto them. Rather he regrets the fact that he will most likely never be allowed to touch or read these books again. He's grown attached to the evenings with William, to the timbre of their voices as they take turns reading, and now to the finely polished scent of these fresh wooden shelves. When William brings out a bottle of wine to celebrate their last night of work, Dominic is unusually willing to join in.

*

"I object!" William blurts loudly, hands a flutter, slipper-covered feet coming down on the thin rug with purpose. "They're a fine set of ears. Very bat-like! Wouldn't you say?"

Dominic's eyes widen and he wobbles forward drunkenly, taking the bottle from William's distracted hand. "No I would not," he says decisively, and William coughs with laughter. 

Dominic's stern mouth softens with a smile and before he can even recognize the sound, he's laughing along. "Ah, now," William drawls, accent slurred, "that's a pretty sound. That's a new sound. Look what that does to your face, Dominic. Can you not see?"

*

"I'm nothing more than drunk," Dominic protests. "And in no place to be philosophical about laughter!"

William grins and falls forward off his chair to sit on the floor. He de-ages fifteen years in front of Dominic's eyes as he folds up his legs and leans forward on slender knees. 

"Nonsense. Drunk is the perfect state in which to be philosophical." Dominic does not agree. "Or artistic, if you will! Shall we discuss the latest works? Giambono, Uccello? Good God, I shouldn't be pronouncing these names after wine. They wince in their sleep as I slay their namesakes, most definitely."

*

They both end up on the floor, chattering on about nothing and everything. Dominic asks about the feast days and William answers; likewise with the plaza names, the names of the fleet that just sailed, the names of William's friends and family. Everything is overblown and humorous. The bottle goes back and forth until it's empty and when it is, they play catch with it--until it is predictably dropped and clunks loudly.

"Well that's disappointing!" William murmurs, falling against Dominic's side. "Something more dramatic, a wee bit of a shatter, but no, why would it? Ah, punishment, divine intervention!"

*

It is only when William's arm is around his back that Dominic realizes they are touching. That they have never touched before this, have never felt the press of each other's weight or the heat of each other's skin. The alcohol slows it all down and takes it out of Dominic's power to control.

"Oh, precious nectar of the vineyard," William sings, right in Dominic's ear. He forgets the words and then stops, panting against the flesh of Dominic's throat. His eyelids dip fuzzily and struggle to rise. "Precious Dominic. I'll change the verses for you! I'll see it done."

*

"You babble, sir, you babble. And I am no maid," Dominic says, daring to look at William out of the corner of his eye. Some measure of clarity comes back and William grins--a grin that floods his eyes with invisible potency.

"I have noticed, dearest, that you are indeed not," he whispers, "a maid in any part of you." Dominic's body burns. Drunk as he is, William falters; practical worry over what his hazily inebriated attentions might be doing to Dominic. "It is my hesitation that should prove me true," he says, miserable, placing his head on Dominic's shoulder.

*

"I don't think there is anything to prove," Dominic says quietly, eyes still straight ahead.

"Isn't there?" William counters, his lips brushing the collar of Dominic's shirt. "I don't see how you could trust me, trust anyone. All that's been done to you. And I sit here with nothing more or less than any of them." 

Dominic tilts his head and his chin brushes William's face. "There lies your mistake, then. It would be a weak man indeed who could not tell the vast difference between two brands of men." 

William sighs, "But there are brands hidden, wouldn't you say?"

*

"Are you preparing to confess?" Dominic smiles.

William smirks, palms cupping Dominic's bicep. "In your experience, is it not that men who seem civil have hidden cruelty?" 

Dominic thinks. "There are many kinds of cruelty," he reflects finally. "And in each of the men I have known I have found some brand of it. Whether it is cruelty toward themselves or their families or others. They use boys for a reason; and this isn't a pure thing. This lack of purity, that you call cruelty, isn't something a man can hide from one who sees his kind night after night."

*

"You have, then, you're saying, developed a talent for seeing this? In so short a time?" William asks, purely curious.

"One night seems a thousand nights inside brothel walls," Dominic finally answers. His flesh is ruddy from the wine and William's closeness. The topic isn't a happy one, but he has found distance, and in that distance perspective--and that is worth its weight in gold. 

"I would run each of them through, if it might give you back what was taken from you," William pronounces. "I would empty every brothel in the city if I had but the power."

*

Dominic's smile widens. He looks down at William and their eyes meet and for the first time neither shies away. "If you are seeking proof, which I have told you is not needed, you have just found it, sir."

William stares, transfixed by the torchlight refracted in Dominic's eyes, and his eyes burn with gratitude. "Ah," he sighs, "there, there. You have undone me. It will be the talk of the kitchens!" 

Dominic laughs, shaking his head. "Never." His addled brain calms in the silence that follows. The calm is thick with thoughts of this new connection they have made.

*

Ages after, William looks up. "While we're in private quarters like this, you don't have to call me that. Please call me William."

Surprised but cloaking it effectively, Dominic nods. "As you wish," he says. 

William watches him, and then says, "You are no member of the servant class. You were the son of a great Russian lord, weren't you? There is fire in your eyes. How long did it take for them to get that fire under control, Dominic? I see you fighting tooth and claw. I see you cursing them. I see you silent and still, in control."

*

Pain draws Dominic's features tight. "I remember very little. I came over land and then by sea down and through the city of Constantinople and lastly on to Italy. Before that? It's elusive. But at the brothel, yes. I did fight. And even when I did not fight actively I fought passively. I...I don't want to think of it any longer."

William's fingers rub broad circles across Dominic's lower back. "I shouldn't've asked. I forget, I...perhaps too much wine." 

Dominic's whole body becomes only the spots William's fingers touch. Excitement races his heart. He wonders if he has the courage.

*

"I would heal you," William says softly, holding Dominic's gaze. Each man can feel the other's breath, warm and sickly sweet with wine. This warmth is the missing half of a whole Dominic has lacked since those frantic embraces he and Orlando shared. And yet this is all at once so unlike that sensation that he can be sure of nothing. Wanting, still, without elaboration--and his eyes are closed and William's lips press against his own, gently coaxing them apart. Lost to the wet warmth of it. Lost a hundred times over, without the option of finding his way back.

*

Falling had never felt so intangible. The subtly of it, the silence of the room with its somber light and sharp wooden scent, and William's lips taking Dominic's as though they were of velvet--all of this fills Dominic's head, making him reel. When they pull apart, lungs hastily filling, he opens his eyes to William's, and begins to tremble. No, kissing Orlando had never been like this. No, nothing in his life has ever felt like this. To be so aroused, from his skin to the wild pounding of his heart to the frantic jumble of his thoughts--never.

*

"What do you see, when you look at me?" Dominic asks breathlessly, their faces a mere nod apart. His eyes fall on William's mouth again, distracted. "I wonder if I want an answer, now, even as I ask for it. I wonder if talk is what I require. I have never..." He kisses William's cheek softly, eyes burning.

"I can't explain what I see," William replies, catching Dominic's face between his hands and guiding the kiss properly. "I too have... _never_. Not like this." 

Thoughts still spinning, Dominic rises. The effect of the wine slips off him like beads of water.

*

"We haven't got much time," William says, his hands gently framing Dominic's face. The wine still lingers in his eyes, glazing them over, offering an edge that's almost crazed.

Dominic has no concept of what he's falling into and no desire for comprehension. One doesn't go about understanding these things; one can only tighten one's grip and hold on. William's eyelids slide shut as he leans in, taking Dominic's mouth. He sways, touching the edges of his thumbs to the corners of Dominic's lips, and a sigh escapes his lips. 

"Wine, and so much more," he waxes. 

Their noses touch.

*

"Nothing more," Dominic quietly counters, the movement of his lips bringing them against William's again. All at once Dominic feels hands on his upper arms, feels them traveling his sides and sliding around to cup the muscled symmetry of his back. He tingles in the waxy candlelight. Lips touch his throat, seeking his pulse carefully. Found, it hammers against William's mouth, and elicits a smile.

"Much more, sweet Dominic," William insists, voice barely a whisper. And it's like this between them when the noise of boots comes from the corridor. William straightens, pained, and pulls away from the intimate embrace.

*

Dominic watches.

William intercepts the yellow-haired maid. He slides money into her hands, much more than usual. He has a good reputation with the staff, so she wouldn't necessarily need the bribe, but in any case Dominic knows as William does that such a gift isn't likely to be forgotten. She lingers when he's said his piece, her small hands tense around his fingers. Her mouth is pink and her small breasts push against the fabric of her ill-fitted dress. William frowns when she brings his hands to her flesh. "No," he says sternly, looking sick, and Dominic turns away.

*

She becomes William's only consistent connection to Dominic. They both know that she won't open the flaps of paper they pass between them. Bits of poetry, bits of thought, bits of dreams--it all goes down for Dominic to see. And on the days when they don't cross paths, the thought of this secret correspondence keeps them going. Dominic rips the seam of his pillow and tucks the notes deep in the straw, careful to seal up the opening and double-check its position every morning.

*

One note reads: "I wouldn't immediately picture you against the more ancient and sturdy stone background of Florence, but the images come to mind. I _can_ indeed see you there with fur brimming at your collar and your boots beating a rhythm on the cobblestones, eyes never leaving the landscape. The cathedrals, Dominic, and the libraries. A different sort of business goes on there and I cannot really describe it to you. I would secure us rooms; room upon room just for our own use. I would act out a play of touches under your direction--I would do anything."

*

William is sent away on business for several weeks. During that time Dominic's obedience knows no end; he's very careful to avoid the wrath of anyone and everyone in the house. The banker does maintain his streak of ignoring Dominic, for which Dominic is grateful. For a time, with strangeness burning in his chest at the thought of William, Dominic has come to see the house in a gentler light. But the house without William becomes cold and sharp again. This lapsing back puts Dominic on edge and suddenly he longs; an emotion he hasn't felt for quite some time.

*

Dominic, in the midst of cleaning spilled lantern oil, overhears a conversation between William's mother and father.

"Nonsense. You say this to me as if I needed to be taught. It was a scandal, you know, despite all the money I threw! Time is what heals this sort of thing. And enough time's been spent. Absence can become scandal even though it occurs for the sake of abating one," says the banker. 

"You're mad," says the mother. "It will do us no good to have him back in the house. He's been gone long enough to make his return difficult!"

*

"He's sent for you!" the maid whispers fiercely, thrusting a cloak at him. "He's come back but hasn't sent word ahead. He will pretend as if he's sending for you to tend him overnight, if asked. You must go." Dominic knows the gondola waits, knows he'll be escorted by the burly-looking ruffian William hired to deliver the message. And yet leaving fills him with a dizzying sense of possibility. He could give that oaf the slip easily enough and, with the gold William has been feeding him, could be on the next ship out of Italy. It could be finished.

*

The heave of the water under the gondola is a torment. The smell of the water and its rocking motion threatens to make him ill. Since his kidnapping, no body of water has ever held appeal--unless it offered escape, and there is no escaping this. Not tonight. When they arrive and step onto dry land, relief trickles through Dominic. He shuffles alongside the messenger, listening to the clink of coins in the larger man's purse.

At the steps, they stop, and Dominic stutters, "I've nothing to--" 

The messenger cuts him off with, "Taken care of. Go on. Inside."

*

The rooms are small and hastily prepared. William can't have occupied them for more than an hour or so. Dominic shakes droplets of water from his cloak and then shrugs it off. He makes for the hearth, stretching out his hands to soak up the fire's heat.

"Drink?" comes the query from the other side of the room. William steps into the light, ruffled shirt nearly undone and exposing a clean line of his chest, stockings tight on his legs, trousers devoid of his sword belt, hair damp. He offers the wine and Dominic takes it, eyes crawling William's body.

*

The wine merely brings Dominic to attention. It's gone in seconds and he shyly hands the cup back, skin flashing hot when their fingers brush. William's body smells of soap. Dominic feels his world shrink. He sighs, in certain rapture, when William reaches for his face. The hands skim past his cheeks, close on his neck, lace around the back, and drawn him in. They kiss freely and suddenly. William's lips draw on his tongue, nibble, and then reclaim. When they pull apart, both men are shaken.

"What is this?" Dominic asks, daring to breathe. 

"I've missed you," William explains.

*

Dominic bends uneasily to the arms around him, to the chest offered as a place to put his head, to the fingers woven through his hair that wander down his sides and then back up to his lips. He's never felt gentle fingertips trace the bow of his mouth before, never this way. He's never been this close to eyes bearing the hybrid emotion of calm excitement. It draws meaningful patterns on his insides. It calls for him to close his weary eyes. And for the first time in a very long time, he remembers what it is to love.

*

Drunk on wine and kisses, William slides into a free manner that Dominic cannot even recall experiencing. His breathless talk is the most beautiful prose to Dominic's ears. Dominic had suspected that behind the calm barrier of station, William was full of fire and mirth for him, full of desire and expression of some sort. He says so, nearly cracking with the sharp, unburdened truth of it. Tears brimming behind his eyes, William clamps hands onto Dominic, stopping his wild spin about the lounge, catching his hands before he sloshes wine into the fire.

"You're everything," William says, laughing, "everything."

*

"And what is that!" Dominic cries brokenly, throwing one arm around William's neck and hauling him close. "Is it animal or human or deity? Will I be your deity, beautiful William?" He laughs and chokes on a sob at the same time. "Ignore me. I'm pitifully drunk. I cannot recall the last time."

William trembles with laughter, kissing Dominic's mouth. "Who are you?" His lips come down again, and again, until Dominic's fingers are clenched around fistfuls of his tunic. "I don't know if even you know the answer," William admits. "But whatever it is you remember, I would know."

*

"Ah, I see why you are the business man of all your brothers," Dominic slurs, walking on wobbly feet back toward the sitting couch. "You knew I would vomit my story in this state. It's why you bought such excellent wine." William grins, following on much steadier feet, and curls hands around Dominic, toppling them both to the cushions.

"No," he replies huskily. "Perhaps I'm just a very good judge of wines." 

Dominic smirks, putting the bottle down with a clunk. "It's so easy to believe all you say." 

William sighs and finally asks, "Will you speak to it, then?"

*

The silence is thick as wine and just as distracting between them. But after several throbbing moments, Dominic's face has undergone a softening change, and the tangle their bodies create is comforting. The flicker of the fire and the warmth of the alcohol in his blood are enough to chase away the cold shadow that speaking about his history creates around him. And it seems that in such a place and with such a man as the man beside him, nothing can truly harm him. It is but events recounted, not reenacted, and altogether lacking the immediacy they once carried.

*

"Remembering it all has never seemed important," Dominic begins. "The journey took much of it from me. The overland ride and then the ship. Oh, but the ship was the worst. The dampness and the rocking and the men. They had no color in their eyes. It was like looking into the blackness of a beast's eyes. I wondered why I was accepting the pain dealt to me. As if this journey had been long-planned. I only knew that before being taken I'd been a young man that wouldn't suffer such treatment. It was what kept me from giving in."

*

"The brothel you know of. Rather than surprise me, the brand of use displayed there was something I seemed to know existed in the world. I don't know why. Perhaps I was no innocent." Dominic pauses. "It's odd. I remember my mother and to some extent my father and sisters. I can relate to you any number of conversations we had and details about our lives, but none of it adds up to a firm conclusion of who I was. What the name of my town was, who I was in relation to others. I don't recall the bigger picture."

*

"I can tell you how it felt. It was a simple life, very stable. My position was secure, as was my future. I had good connections with my parents. I was happy." He stops again, and William's arms tighten. "And then one day something happened that wasn't supposed to. We were...we were far off. Somewhere. There was some kind of violence. And I woke in the back of a wagon. And then I woke in a ship. But it's unclear, I can't remember why or where or what my father's reaction was or how long I traveled to get here."

*

"But there," William says, roused from something of a lull. "Your said your father was there with you."

Dominic glances up, eyelids fluttering. "I did," he admits, brow creasing. "But I...well, I suppose I just recalled that now as I spoke it." He falls to thinking again, and then sighs, fingers coming up to massage the lines from his young face. "To think on it further only causes a jumble in my head." 

William chews on his upper lip thoughtfully. "Then forget it for now," he says, finally, tugging Dominic's arm. "Remembering doesn't happen that way. You've been through enough."

*

"I want to do something to get things back," Dominic sighs, frustrated, tossing onto his side and facing William. "All that is lost is mine to claim and to be unable to just take it..."

William cups Dominic's cheek, smiling gently. "But it is beyond you now. If you have done all you can, then there is no reason to punish yourself further." He pauses, curling a light grip along Dominic's tense back. "And we have until morning. There is nothing between us here." William's fingers curl just under Dominic's tunic, pads of his fingers hot against equally hot skin.

*

Dominic smiles. As William dips lower, lips tasting the hollow of his throat, the smile fades into distracted wonder. "You saved the best diversion for last," he sighs, consciously forcing himself to relax, even as the warmth trickles along his skin, bringing up all its hairs. William chuckles, pulling them together and then rolling over suddenly, bringing Dominic over him.

Unsure, Dominic's hands come down to support his weight. His body slowly relaxes downward, tucking into the opposite curves of William's petite frame. "Is this what you prefer?" Dominic asks, and William frowns. 

"I prefer only what you would enjoy."

*

William's fingers tug at the string that laces shut the neck of Dominic's tunic, and he watches it loosen. The fire's light dances across the strong cut of Dominic's throat and William gathers the cloth in his fingers, listening to it whisper across skin as it falls away. "Do not think on it," William whispers. Dominic lies against William's chest, and they share news of breath and heartbeats. "Only kiss me." Dominic's body knots up at the request and is all at once overcome by a rush, hands coming up to brace either side of William's head as they kiss.

*

And it seems that's all William will ever require. They carry on until Dominic cannot feel his lips, until he's so hot he cannot stand even the air on his skin. His head spins at each pause they take. William's fingers have sifted his hair into complete disarray and he is painfully aware of every spot at which their bodies meet. But it's the disorientation that surprises him, the shock of wanting this, of hoping it will continue; the feeling cannot be avoided or turned aside. It spills relief into his chest--relief that he never thought he'd feel again.

*

"Dominic," William sighs. Their moist foreheads brush, Dominic's hair mingling with William's--the light comes through the strands, fragmented and gorgeous. William reaches up, smoothing hair back behind Dominic's ear just as he snakes a leg over and between Dominic's.

"Let me take care of you," he implores, fingertips finding the sweat-soaked waistband of Dominic's trousers. Dominic finds himself moving until the cloth is gone, and then goes the undergarment, and suddenly he's between William's knees, aching for release against his own belly. He only realizes he's making noise when William hushes him gently in an effort to calm him.

*

Dominic purses his lips tight when William's wandering hands finally find their way between his legs, closing around him. "Look at me," William breathes, and Dominic's eyes pop open instinctively, only to find the most beautiful countenance under his. "Move with me."

 _Strange to feel so suddenly inept_ , Dominic thinks. Shaking with the pleasure, he begins to rock softly into William's grip. His face works with the feeling, lining itself with tension as William's legs lock around his, guiding their steadily building rhythm. Such attention he has never received--such a wild pounding under his skin he has never felt.

*

He can only sigh and breathe as the inevitable coils beyond William's fingers. Something in the fire pops loudly. Dominic is moving quickly, and the pressure knots and explodes all at once and without much ado between their bodies. His chest comes up off William's, and a low-pitched sigh explodes with the quality of a moan from his lips. Limp, he collapses. He can feel the urge to sleep already. William dabs up the mess and moments later joins him, kissing his hot temple. "Sleep. Tonight was for you."

 _And so it was_ , Dominic thinks, and falls into calm sleep.

*

The morning is for Dominic, as well. Though he knows William is straining the limits of their already short time, he says nothing. Ah, how easy it is to fall back on position, he thinks, and eats bread and cheese off a plate that William has brought to him. Were it not for the boyish grin that took hold of William's mouth upon beginning the service, Dominic would have stopped him. A wonderfully easy thing is between them this morning, accentuated and brought to reality again and again by the brush of William's fingers and the pass of his gaze.

*

"It is an improvement, they say, though I must admit a certain fondness for things as they used to be. Naturally, I will admit Carpaccio's bridge had its flaws. However there _was_ a certain charm to it. Da Ponte's bridge, is it the, ah. Yes, a single piece of stone. Things only get sturdier, or so it would be if men were dedicated to their virtues," William says, and then drops off, suddenly distracted by the wine-darkened shade of Dominic's mouth just inches from his. "Why am I giving a speech about bridges, Dominic? And why are you allowing it?"

*

Dominic's lips quirk in an amused fashion. "You become very red when you talk about something that matters to you."

William's eyebrows linger halfway up his forehead and then fall, leaving his brow smooth. "You mock me." 

Dominic's face tightens slightly. "Never," he replies, and then quickly adds, with a beautifully comfortable smile, "unless you desire that." 

William smirks, and finishing tugging on his clothes. "I have many desires that involve you and that, thankfully, is not among them." 

Dominic's gaze lingers briefly on William's things, which are packed and ready to be moved. "Your house, then, is the destination?"

*

"I must," William says. "My father will already want to know why I've been gone an extra day. Your coincidental absence shouldn't be a problem, though I will tell you we can't have this sort of holiday again for some time. It is too much of a risk."

Dominic, having thought so, is not surprised, and manages to suppress a shiver of uncertainty. He maintains this all throughout the gondola ride. They find the house lazily quiet, thankfully half emptied, and Dominic has only to hush away the excited questions of the yellow-haired kitchen girl to complete his anti-climactic return.

*

Several weeks later, in the midst of running back and forth between the kitchen and the pantry, Dominic overhears the drunken chatter of familiar voices. He has grown used them--William's two closest friends, the two that seem never to part from one another. Thought he is not juvenile enough to feel jealous, he cannot help but wish he and William had the chance to share a glimpse between them in this company. They haven't been able to arrange a meeting since their last and hastily scrawled notes cannot replace the knowledge Dominic now has of William's hands and voice.

*

In his current nightmare, many things happen at once. He mocks himself upon waking--as if nightmares would come in a neat, orderly fashion--and swallows them down. But he cannot leave them behind entirely, nor deny the pain they bring. In these twisted scenes he crashes through knee-high grass, dwarfed by the legs of black horses, and there is a great shouting all around, and then nothing. At night he scribbles this on wrinkled parchment and goes on his nightly pilgrimage to the library, placing the note in the book he and William now use to carry their exchanges.

*

Dominic reads this note several times: "The defeat of Genoa? It was a naval affair. Rather surprising, when one takes into account how many died in the plague. Dear boy, why do we linger over history and politics so? Your mind imitates some yet undiscovered material that takes on water and yet is never saturated. I imagine it would be rich purple in color, this cloth. The color of royalty, no? To break with the topic: would it be very cruel of me to confess that I have maintained the intense habit of thinking of you before sleeping each night?"

*

As the weather slips from chilly to temperate, Dominic's nightmares slow just a little. Is this Venice's way of reminding him the cold no longer has anything to do with him? Would that be, he questions, the temperature of the air, or of his days? Because surely nothing could be warmer than the reality of William. Though Dominic shares the man with his world in every respect, dodging the glare of the banker himself at dinner parties for the sake of catching his son's eye, the parts that he now and again has access to make it worth the sacrifice.

*

Dominic writes: "I've had to start again, because on the other, I wrote your name. Haste and waste--I know I've heard those together. Perhaps I can claim credit? Or perhaps not. I would continue with my questions about the Fourth Crusade, but I see that history puts you in a nasty state. Is that the way of all handsome Italian men? A shame, and yet I forgive you. As you have admitted you can never stay angry at me, I suppose it only fair to return the favor. While we are confessing; I must say that I miss you."

*

"Queen of Cyprus, indeed!" exclaims a guest, and Dominic allows himself to glance at the guest's partner in conversation, glad to find it is William.

"The girl is descended from royalty. You should watch yourself," William replies jovially. "Though the Cornaros have questionable practices, they are no less a very important family." 

The man squints at William. "She is very nearly a child. Her crown falls, and what is she to do, with no hips to catch it on its way down?" William, caught off-guard by this tactile witticism, laughs. Dominic's eyes linger there, and the room is suddenly warmer.

*

William disappears from the house for some time, off on business yet again. For these days Dominic holds his breath. Though there really has never been any connection between William's presence and the lack of violence in Dominic's indentured life, it is more that without William he has no true companion beyond the swaying, thick braids of the kitchen maid who still brings him his things from the market each morning. He is by now established as the outcast of the staff, though not for any reason they invent. Dominic's reality is the very last thing they would ever imagine.

*

He eavesdrops on the banker and his wife arguing. This is no new event. They speak very rapidly and often slip into dialects he doesn't understand, but to him there seems to be continuity in the topic. It must be William, he thinks, because sons and harsh words keep cropping up. He wonders if this has anything to do with William's career. But his idling is interrupted; a brief scuffle around the front doors announces William's return. The banker hushes his wife and turns in the direction of the hall, face outlined by the orange firelight. _It must be William._

*

This return is not quiet. William is all noise and stomp into the depths of the house. Though another servant pushes Dominic along, he does catch the beginnings of a very loud argument between William and his father. Later that night, not expecting it at all, he finds a note in their book. "No time, must be brief. Madness! This house and all its parts are madness. Things are in a sorry state where I have just been. I fear another trip might upset my own sanity. There is something to this, though. Will you come to Florence with me?"

*

"What are the circumstances?" might Dominic's painfully short reply. "Why now?" is what he truly wants to ask, but such a reply would be rude. In truth, the only response he has is yes, but experience has made him wary, and he wonders if William wrote the note in angry rebellion, and might have not made the best decision at the time in asking. He knows nothing of Florence, nothing of traveling in this country, nothing of how William will get them out of the house without arousing his father's suspicion. And yet he is so weary; wants so much.

*

He is just returning their book to its shelf (no reply within) when a voice startles him. "I plainly asked," William says, smiling. "I asked for a boy that hasn't been well integrated into the staff. A boy whose absence would be the least noticeable."

Flushing, Dominic crosses the room. "You _have_ lost your sanity," he replies, laughter in his voice. "I am glad to see it go." 

William grins, and all at once his face is against Dominic's, and his hands are on Dominic's neck. "You will come?" he asks, and Dominic pushes their mouths together. 

"I will come."

*

"It is by no means a settled time," William explains. "Nor is it singular. You can feel this in Venice, naturally, but Florence is where the true grit of it gathers. All the most known personalities; artists, politicians, bankers, explorers."

At this, Dominic starts. "Explorers?" 

William grins. "Yes. All obsessed with finding ways to accomplish the same feats, merely faster. Progress, or so they say. They all struggle to follow in each other's footsteps, claiming victory after gaining very little." He shrugs. "But there is a power struggle and a declining economic state, which concerns my family and my business."

*

"I cannot trust you," Dominic replies, a sly smile playing across his lips. "You are in love with Venice and the coast. I can sense that."

William laughs, fingers toying with the cloak that he and Dominic share. "Perhaps. Brutality is not my favorite dish. Savanarola burnt as a heretic not one year ago, the Medici family sinking and its banking system in shambles, and that's not even to mention the damned French sticking their nose--and kings--into Italy's business. With all these foreign rulers funding Italian voyages into new territories--ah. I tell you, it cannot end well."

*

The carriage rocks beneath them. The rhythm is not as soothing as Dominic had hoped it would be, but the black confines of the vehicle make up for the ride's lack of smoothness. The driver will not disturb them until they reach the next village or the horses require watering and rest, and William has assured him this won't be for hours. Traveling beside the driver is a well-paid bodyguard, hired to protect them from thieves on the road whose presence, William has told him, has become boringly predictable.

"But enough of this. Tell me something _cheerful_ about this city."

*

"Cheer? What a dreadful conversationalist you are! Gloom is the coin of the realm in most places." William brings Dominic closer inside the heavy cloak. "But for my adoration of you, I'll endeavor some cheerful talk." The dim light hides Dominic's soft smile. "Michelangelo has completed recently a very amazing piece of work--a statue--that we must see. Placed, I hear, directly in front of the Palazzo della Signoria where Savanarola was executed. Which redeems things a little, wouldn't you say?"

Dominic laughs sardonically. "This is certainly an improvement. And what else of art? I enjoy that, I confess."

*

"Nothing near as recent as the statue, but there are things I have seen that I would revisit with you," William says. "Da Vinci's rendition of the Last Supper." He pauses, suppressing a laugh. "We could invade the pretentiously self-named Accademia of Leonardo da Vinci. A fancy name, really, for a group of lazy socialites who enjoy inserting themselves below the name of the master, gathering to discuss what they believe they know about art in his name."

Dominic, interest piqued at this last, straightens and says, looking very serious and entirely naughty, "I will go if you go, William."

*

Barking out a laugh, William leans into the carriage as it turns. "Naturally! We could cause a good deal of trouble if we wanted. But this is a professional venture, however casual. Things are deteriorating along the lines of organization and dependability. Several of our clients have their bases here and my father wants me to secure their business or shake them off, depending on how deplorable the situation has become. There is much bad blood between our two cities, but it is common knowledge that most Florentines cannot accept the fact that their own institutions are crumbling around them."

*

"And here we are, once again, at the fount of your endless optimism," Dominic sighs, pressing his cheek to William's shoulder.

"I enjoy being predictable for you." 

Dominic smirks. "Successful in all ventures, as I've observed before, sir. Your happy rendition of Florence in Brief Conversation has worn me out." Fingers creep just around his hip. Dominic fights off a shiver when William's lips brush his temple. 

"Reserve yourself for a different brand of wear, I beg, and I will swear myself to monastic silence." 

Dominic grows warm and closes his eyes. "A business man, indeed, from bank to bed."

*

The bed, as it turns out, is housed in a rather impressive set of lodgings. "This belongs to one of my clients," William explains. "We have it and the staff for the duration of our trip."

Dominic smirks at this last and asks, "And am I not staff?" 

William replies, "You are to attend me alone." Dominic closes the distance between them and flattens his palms against William's chest. Their gazes meet. "But for now," William says, "I want you to eat and sleep. I must check in with our hosts and you are in need of some long-denied comfort."

*

Finally, Dominic is alone. Many things run through his mind: that this is the first time he has been completely by himself in a very long while, that a servant coming in to bring him food is strange no matter how prepared he was for it, and that he cannot stop thinking about William effecting a speedy return. And then he thinks: _Florence_. And he thinks, _Good God, Florence, William, myself_. How is this at all possible? The ceilings are high and the floor is cold but the hearth is warm. Everything is red, from the bed to the drapes.

*

For some weeks, he hasn't had nightmares. Neither nightmares nor dreams, in truth, whether they are merely forgotten or explicitly absent. This evening is no different, though dreams are the last thing that comes to mind, because William has returned. He sits up, blankets pooling around his waist, and William glances over. "How long have I slept?" Dominic asks, and then coughs to clear his throat.

"Not long enough," William replies, crossing the room to sit at the edge of the bed. 

_Nonsense_ , Dominic thinks. "Might you stay?" is what he asks, body as well as mind drowning in scarlet.

*

He isn't entirely sure what makes up the layered emotion in William's eyes. This is not for lack of gazing, for gaze he does, taking note of the way the firelight and the room's hue makes everything seem dipped in the color; the way that color dances across William's face, softening already gentle features. He only knows that when he reaches out and curls his fingers around the back of William's neck, he does so because nothing in the world--not even his past--has the power to stand between himself and this. There is no call for a reply.

*

Heart roaring beneath his ears, Dominic pulls William in and kisses his mouth. The shaky return of breath that spills across his lips creates secondary shivers along his sides. Beneath his clothes he warms, above his collar his head spins around the kiss, and all at once his arms are clasping William's body. They break apart only when William's hands insist on it.

"Dominic," he says, voice rough with distraction. 

"No, do not make speeches now. I am not afraid. I have wanted this." Unable to stop, Dominic brings their lips together again, daring a brief part of his lips.

*

William stares at him when they break for air and Dominic senses that this is the last. Shaking, he skims his hands forward, cupping William's face. Eyes still on William's, he unhooks the clasps at the front of William's outer cloak and brushes the garment back. He has done this a thousand times, has executed intimacy convincing enough to ensure his own physical health. Crushed with the fear that this, being similar in gesture, will ring hollow, he turns his flushed cheek, kisses the curve of William's neck, and buries his hand lightly in the bunched cloth of William's tunic.

*

Face tucked against William's shoulder, Dominic's fingers hook and lift. William hastily mirrors the motion. Half undressed, he shivers in the open air, and settles comfortably between William's legs. When hands grip his back, burning against skin, he bites his lip shut to contain the breath that rises sharply. William watches him, eyes gone dark. Dominic nudges their bodies to the blankets and settles gingerly atop William. A touch skitters hesitantly below the waist of his trousers, pressing them into better arrangement. Then there are hands all over, covering his skin and pulling him inward, until only breath separates them.

*

Wanting this is foreign. Craving the pressure and the friction is overwhelming. He has never had to worry about control because there had never been any surge in his own body that required tempering; and so he isn't schooled in masking his reaction when William removes the rest of their clothing and he finds himself naked and throbbing and aroused. It's almost too much and he finds himself shying away from allowing it to show. Squirming to avoid the instability it brings, he begins tasting skin; painting wet stripes with his lips and tongue down the length of William's chest.

*

"You--" Dominic's fingers disturb the hair that dusts William's thighs. He is wholly obsessed with the idea of bringing the quivering in William's body to a wilder pitch. Trying again, William reaches down and touches Dominic's face. "You don't have to do this. I'm not--I'm no, no..."

Smiling, Dominic presses a kiss to William's palm. "You promised no speeches, dear William. I'm holding you to that." For just a moment, his eyes cloud with seriousness again. "Please. Let me. You are so strikingly handsome lying there; how else might I convince you of how much I want this?"

*

The tension flutters and settles. Full of breath and pulse, Dominic takes William in hand and begins a gentle stroke. He finds it difficult to concentrate on rhythm, as everything else about William there under him is more interesting--the rise and fall of his chest, the blood that floods his forehead and cheeks, and his hands worrying fistfuls of blanket. And deep down, Dominic is faintly shocked; that this is union and yet has aspects not directly linked to gratification. It is connected to different things--to relieving the tension in William's body and wanting William exactly this way.

*

The realization floods his head with what he can only describe as bubbles; great hollows of air that make him giddy and ticklish and overcome with a sense of happiness so clean that it prickles his eyes with tears. It is a brand of joy so sudden and full-bodied that it makes his tears spill, even as he works the hot arousal with his mouth and fingers. He has never taken pleasure in this before, in how William barely moves and doesn't guide and just allows him to go on. Enjoying it the very last thing he had ever expected.

*

Enthralled, Dominic moves with William's rocking hips and then holds tightly when a moan cracks the silence; William spills salty and warm across his tongue. Rolling his wrist until William is entirely spent is a mere afterthought. He trails his hands up and down damp chest, pressing flesh and tracing the contour of ribs. Suddenly exhausted, he rests his head on William's hip and closes his eyes. He loses track of how long they stay that way, but the red glows behind his eyelids and his heart laps ever slower until finally his skin isn't hot and he's breathing normally.

*

"No, don't worry, I just want to--this way." Dominic curls himself around William before he can think not to. It's all he wants--to lie quiet and warm and listen to William's breathing calm. Once this passes he watches fire dance behind its iron grate across the room. He feels that he might as well be right in front of it for the heat simmering just below his muscles.

William's fingers stroke through his hair. "Thank you," he murmurs, gathering Dominic's body against his. Dominic blinks tears from behind his eyelids before closing them and falling swiftly into sleep.

*

Dawn comes--a realization, in bold measure. Blood red is merely scarlet under the bold glow of day, and William is simply William under the coverlets. And what is that? Who is such a man? Dominic blinks and, with each lift of his heavy eyelids, the answer to this question changes. William is the race of a pulse under his palm. William is a man of compact grace and endless kindness.

There is food waiting, laid out just between the hearth and the bed, and Dominic finds himself blushing. Whoever had brought the meal had seen them this way, surely.

*

Such is the tone of their even rhythm.

"We can be madmen," William says, often, and Dominic agrees. They enjoy games of logic and puzzles. They enjoy literature--but only if it is symbolic or ironic or comedic. They enjoy intoxication and making love in the privacy of a warm chamber. 

Apart, they are fine examples of cheery men. Dominic has free reign to come and go as he pleases while William takes care of business.

"It's a muddle," William confesses, weary against Dominic's body, each night. "I doubt I shall have a single positive thing to tell my father."

*

The trip reminds Dominic of the definition of equality, and of what it feels like to stare eye to eye and not cringe or worry afterward. Florence is a crumbling, gray thing, but still graceful, and he stands as William described him so long ago in boots and fur, eyes turned up at the buildings and paintings and statues in fascination. William watches him in turn, equally fascinated, and Dominic is held in thrall by this almost as much as his surroundings. The question becomes, when and how will this end, and what sort of men will they be, then?

*

They go to the Medici Chapel, and William shows him _The Procession of the Magi_.

"Not particularly ancient, as paintings go, though it is already considered his greatest work. But perhaps," he chuckles softly, "death increases glory."

Enthralled, Dominic paces back and forth in front of the work. He feels as if he could stand there forever and never process all of its detail. "When did he die? What was his name?"

"Benozzo Gozzoli. Not two years ago, of the plague, or so they say. Do you see, how it is a farce, in a way?"

"Tell me," Dominic pleads.

*

"He portrays the greatest of the Medici family in a setting that is a fantasy of the Renaissance. And this commissioned as the family itself crumbled into disarray. Florence is in the midst of a great upheaval and yet, in this chapel's rooms, nothing can touch their ruling family."

"I have never seen such a thing," Dominic whispers.

"Their exile has already begun," William replies.

"It's their faces," Dominic goes on. "Their mouths and the line of their gazes, never forward. All the way to the Holy City."

"There is more," William says, and leads Dominic into the adjoining room.

*

Indeed, they might stay there for the rest of their lives and only catch a glimpse of everything the city has to offer. In the evenings, they drink and eat and make love. Dominic sketches the outline of _Madonna and Child_ on parchment in the late afternoons and waits for William. The art and the freedom of life set his thoughts adrift and his dreams come surging as waves, bringing memories back like so much sand and shell from the murky depths of his mind. He tells William what he recalls, and William encourages him to write it all down.

*

There is little challenge to observing the city's curfew, though Dominic admits that this makes it seem too like a fortress.

"You would rather roam the streets at night in search of a bust you have yet to catalogue, my dear artist?" William jokes, and Dominic smirks and tips a grape between his lips.

"I shall do just that, if you don't start humoring me. I find your wit so overbearingly developed."

William laughs. "Surely there must be one thing of Venice that you miss."

"The breeze," Dominic answers. "One gets very accustomed to the wind off of the water."

*

On their last morning in Florence, William takes Dominic to the Piazza del Duomo. "Really," he says, "we should have begun here. This place and its cathedral define the skyline quite famously."

Dominic is particularly taken by the belltower, and they spend what is left of their time wandering the shape of the square to admire it from all possible angles. The crowd eventually drives them back to their lodgings, where everything they've come with and everything they have acquired is packed for travel.

Neither has to say _I can't imagine going back_ , because speaking it would be an overstatement.

*

"It is strange," William says, curled up against Dominic's side in the carriage, their hands tangled. "So much about Florence is decay. So much of it is enclosed, stifled, hidden from the face of the outside world. And yet it is there where we found our first freedom."

Dominic's chest feels as hollow as barrel full of air. The pain of returning is remarkably sharp, and William's words bring it to life.

"Perhaps our only freedom," he adds, and William looks at him, and he feels a love so fierce that it threatens to cut his insides to bloody ribbons.

*

And what is freedom, to Dominic, now? After Florence, he enjoys finding life and its meanings in tiny ways. He thinks that the port and the ships represent freedom. The clean sea air and the endless sky beyond. Yes, all this. Freedom is making love in a room coated with red. Freedom is staring at a painting until the entire world becomes that painting and there is no greater mystery to puzzle than its borders. But freedom can be terribly finite, as may be circumstance, and this is the first lesson they relearn when they arrive home in lively Venice.

*

They sense something wrong from the moment they arrive. There is an uneasy silence about the place.

"Wait here," William bids him, and he tries as hard as possible to slip back into that way of averting his gaze and seeming subservient.

From there it is utter pandemonium. A crowd rushes from a servant's entrance, led by a very angry looking young man. A gasp of panic goes up from several frightened onlookers. Dominic gets a glimpse of the old banker's cloak and then a flash of skin as a fist comes flying up and catches him across the jaw.

*

"No!"

He hears the exclamation and simply processes the volume, which puts fear into him. He curls up. His face is swollen and there is blood and there are hands grappling everywhere, boots and belts and the rustle of cheap metal and silk. Colors under his eyelids and the layering of many voices, with one voice of protest rising above--William's. 

"Step aside." The angry voice. The young man. _The violinist_. The taste of his flesh, the sickening snap of his wrist. Oh God. "Step aside, it's none of your affair!"

"It's unsightly! You're making a mockery of this house."

*

Light stabs Dominic's eyelids as he's rolled onto his back. Something inside him goes weak at the sight of the violinist, something that reminds him of what it felt like to be forced, to be owned.

"See here," shouts the violinist son, spraying Dominic's face with spittle. "I won't have it. Do you hear me, you filthy whore? I'll have every ear in this wretched place!" He throws off a restraining arm--William's?--and kicks Dominic. "You won't eat another crumb off my father's table, whore. How dare you presume to live off of my family after what you've done!"

*

"For God's sake, he was taken as payment, not invited for a holiday!" William shouts. He is red in the face and panting, utterly distraught. Dominic wants to yell at him not to be; with every word that he speaks in Dominic's defense he's incriminating himself.

"Who are you, preaching to me, little banker's son?"

William charges forward, face screwed up in anger.

"Enough of this!" comes a shout from the center of the crowd. The old banker's voice blankets the bickering immediately. "It is as William says and you will do well to respect my authority in this house."

*

"We will discuss this in the privacy of my chambers."

Dominic is dragged the whole way. He throws up once.

"You are a hot-headed boy, and your behavior is shameful. However. This creature's punishment was doled out long before you returned." The violinist's silence is enough to assert that he feels he could do _much_ more, given leave. "He'll be put out immediately," the old banker says, finally. "Starvation will do him worse than beatings, I'll wager."

"How can you?" Dominic pries his bloodied eye open to watch William's small form dash across the room. "It's inhuman! He'll never survive."

*

That's the last Dominic hears, because he's led out of the room and back to the kitchens just as William begins to earnestly argue with his father. It will only serve to get Dominic on the street faster. The small part of him that had blossomed under the freedom he'd learned to love in Florence shrivels, and he sits on the hard marble of the kitchen floor, letting the cold seep into his veins.

Without the lifestyle of this house, without the support it has given...

He can't even bring himself to imagine an end to his time with William.

*

The poetry book in the library is no longer an option, but the yellow-haired maid (overjoyed to see him again) carries messages as eagerly as always.

"I am sorry," William writes. "I never expected him to return without having some warning of it, first. I never expected tragedy to come this swift upon the heels of our wonderful time together. I will think of something, _must_ think of something, but tonight I am all of me grief. Forgive me, and I will stay above the waves that threaten to overcome my heart. Forgive me, and I will be yours always."

*

"Forgive you what, dearest one?" Dominic replies. "This is none of it your fault. It would have come to this eventuality at some point. Neither of us had any grand notions of growing old and stooped as master and servant together. Are we even far enough along for notions? We have yet to earn them. And if you are grief, beloved, then I am defeat. We are a likely, despondent pair; of that there is no doubt. May we even talk of _what to do_? I don't have the words. Supply them, and I will gladly follow you into always."

*

"Are you badly hurt?" William writes back. "That is my first, logical concern, and one that I know you will appreciate. If you are well, then I am glad, and will embrace that for as long as it will sustain me. I wish I had the words you beg for, but I'm at a loss. Father wants you gone by the next saint's day. My brother is already gone again, wasting his allowance on company and drink, and here we are enduring the chaos he's left. There is no pretty way to say this. I cannot bear to lose you."

*

"Our messenger has tended me as if I were her own wounded bird," Dominic writes. "She has given me some exotic name to that effect; I'm sure this amuses you. What to say? I will tell you only that I cannot bear to be lost, and that I must see you. If you have leave tomorrow afternoon, meet me by the water at the usual spot. Do you recall the words from that verse you gave me upon our first meeting? 'As we ourselves believe, not knowing what we create'? Let us believe, William, if only for a little while."

*

It's as unpleasant down by the water as always, but Dominic would bear the litter and stench for less than a moment of William's time, especially after what just happened. He finds himself strangely blank; the changes have come so suddenly and in such sharpness that there is nothing to do, nothing to strategize, in any case. It matters little even if they are found here; Dominic would be turned out all the same. He recalls sunlight on the piazzas they had seen in Florence, and his heart aches. He had almost been himself, if only for a little while.

*

William has never grabbed at Dominic with such intensity before. They are barely in the same space for a single moment when he claims Dominic's arms, hands, sides, and face with his fingers. They kiss hungrily for a beat longer than that and then straighten, though William's fingers continue to map his face fervently.

"What might we do?" Dominic asks, to the point.

"Our messenger has a cousin with a place in a household not far from here," William begins. "Despite the nature of these events, she tells me that she may be able to secure you a place there."

*

Dominic searches William's face. This is somewhat cheerier news than he'd expected, but how is it possible that he can secure employment with his history?

"I know it seems unlikely," William replies. "There would be a good deal of money involved to facilitate it, and if you prove loyal..."

"I will be a servant forever," Dominic whispers, not ungratefully, but nervously.

"No." William gives him a small shake. "This is but a way to keep you alive and near until we might plot something better."

"Plot what?" he asks, shaking his head. There is something terribly incorrect about William's thinking.

*

Dominic sighs. "Our lives are not bound together. Once I am out of your house I am out of your life." The bedroom in Florence flashes in his mind, a play of red and the golden tone of William's skin, limbs passing under Dominic's body. Never again, never that way.

"That's not true," William replies. "Once I inherit my father's business, I may do as I please."

"To inherit you must marry." 

William's expression freezes in place. "I..." Dominic nods.

"So you see, other than keeping me as some sort of...of _mistress_ , there is no--"

"I can't bear this!"

*

More than anything, he knows William cannot imagine giving up. He knows it seems impossible that they might have to let this situation unfold exactly as the old banker has decreed it will. He had intended to bolster their confidence this night and yet, when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is the unforgiving truth.

"I will always want to be near you, but the world is not arranged for you and I. Not Venice. Not even Florence, though it played host to us," is what he says, gently, embracing William. "Let us move forward step by step."

*

William is settled now with nature of it, and stands and arranges his cloak, taking a breath. "Little else to do, I suppose. What shall our first step be?"

"This place, we must make sure I get it. And once I have judged the nature of the house, we may see what time I have to come to you and you to me. It is what we both want, and about as far as we can take this, for now." Even as he says it he wonders if he's lying to himself, but he won't let that change the attempt.

*

Exactly how much money changes hands is something Dominic never learns. All he knows is that the combination of the maid's recommendation, William's reputation, and the money do the magic that they both hoped it would do. Exactly as he'd proclaimed, the old banker sends Dominic out the day before the next saint's day, and William is there as calm as he can be to pay off the gondolier and look reproachful. It would do no good to show he cares. The gondola then takes Dominic directly to what, he ponders with some amazement, will be his third Venetian home.

*

On his first tour of this new home, the woman in charge of the staff leaves him for a moment to tend a crisis in the kitchens. Her exit was a bit rehearsed and he suspects it may be a test to see if he'll stuff valuables into his tunic as soon as he's left to his own devices. Regardless, he is left there with the noise of his breathing bouncing off the marble floors like footsteps. There is a looking glass made of polished metal across from where he stands and so he approaches it and catalogues his appearance.

*

He had been given time to clean and dress himself respectably before leaving William's house and so what he sees there isn't all terrible. He still bears the marks of the violinist's beating but his body is resilient, and he suspects it also has something to do with getting used to the climate here. He doesn't look--or at least it seems that way to him--nearly as foreign as he did when he arrived. He wonders if this has anything to do with the loving touch of William's hands. He thinks of it just long enough to grow warm.

*

The woman comes back and gives him a patient smile. Hope flowers in his chest at this, and he follows her, and thinks that something decent might have finally happened to his circumstances.

She explains the work to him, and it's simple enough. Light carpentry, fixing broken tools, putting in time in the kitchens during the day's meals. Nothing surprising, but he still keeps waiting for the rest of the story; and it never comes. She tells him whom to directly report to every day, the schedule of the house, and the names of vendors that they have accounts with.

*

"Our messenger's cousin tells me that she will carry our letters, which is an encouraging thing, though I suppose I must learn to trust her," Dominic writes that first night. "To be honest with you, I have difficulty believing the reality of this new place. Everyone within its walls from fellow servant to master is kind, with sweet voices and gentle natures. Do you think it is just because of my past that I have trouble accepting people such as you existing all around me? You may have to do something chivalrous and childishly romantic to keep my attentions, William."

*

The cousin goes to William's house no more than once each month or every other, but she meets up with the yellow-haired servant more often at the markets, and so the pair of them manage to get one or two letters a month to and from their respective houses. It isn't as good as one or two a day, but it will do. There is little excuse for Dominic to leave the house on errands--he's too new for that--and so there is nothing but parchment and ink for he and William the first few months after their separation.

*

And then, quite suddenly, the sifting of memory back through the dusty planks of Dominic's mind begins anew. It happens, perhaps, when he realizes he is safe, lucky to be employed by good people, or maybe when he learns to not need William so much, or when his master allows him art books. Names of villages come first, whole chunks of his childhood, and then concepts of people. The more he writes it down, the faster the details come. He includes copies of his writings with his letters to William, nervously, and waits every month on tiptoe for the replies.

*

"I remembered my family's name last night, and was so joyous that I could not stop myself from rushing to my writing table and copying it down immediately. I confess that I wrote it over and over until I'd wasted an entire piece of parchment that way. I hope you'll forgive me for not including it here but oh, how to explain it? I feel as if it is mine, somehow, and that to share it would cheapen it. I am at a loss as to what to do with the knowledge now that I have it back," Dominic writes.

*

"I would have felt strange to hear it, truthfully, Dominic," William replies. "Forgive my solitary reply to three of your letters, but I have been under great stress. My father has taken ill and I find myself responsible for many things in his place. I long for you in ways I cannot articulate through written word--parchment does not sigh, or bend, or blush--but still I am filled with happiness at each of your tiny discoveries. I would see your books and your kind masters, but most of all I would see you. Tell me, is this yet possible?"

*

Dominic cannot be sure. There are a variety of ways in which he and William could meet, but each comes with its own set of risks. He would prefer it if William could secure them rooms to meet at; but then again, he does not have leave to be gone for so long a time as private rooms would require. He puzzles long and hard about this before penning a reply, which concludes that the best solution would be if William could somehow visit him in his new home. It would require cunning, but it seems the only safe way.

*

Waiting for William's reply, Dominic busies himself with his new life. He will never enjoy servant's work, but in this house it is quite bearable. His evenings are his own and he uses them to learn both spoken and written local languages, to imitate drawings from his art books, and to spend great times in silence, giving his memories space to breathe. Latin, Italian, and Greek play with his recollections, giving him a new framework upon which to build descriptions of his former life. He recalls childhood and his parents in great detail. He recalls rituals and food and horse riding.

*

He recalls being betrothed, and remarks to William how this last moves him least of all of his memories.

"Not because I was not pleased," he writes, "but because there seemed little carnal pleasure in it. I recall that I knew her well and had always known her and that we two loved each other almost as sister and brother. Perhaps it was ill advised to marry two such people, but I suspect we would have embraced it and been happy in our own way. Natural affection and love of any kind are so rare in betrothals, to begin with."

*

Dominic's first errand that takes him some distance comes when his master requires a manservant on a visit to the Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta. He is thrilled by this prospect.

They take a gondola to Torcello--the open water travel strangely does not upset Dominic--and travel from the shore to the cathedral, where his master has arranged a meeting with a Holy Father. He attends his master for the meeting but afterward, during supper, is given leave to walk about, accompanied by a bodyguard. For just a moment he recalls Florence, and longs for William at his side.

*

He walks under the arches and finds a marvelous rendition of the Virgin whose stern face, dotted with a solitary tear, enthralls him far more than the baby Jesus in her hands does. It is an odd image and confuses him, and he plans to research it further when he is back with his books.

"They say these are as impressive as the mosaics you find at San Marco," the bodyguard gruffly comments.

In his mind he hears Orlando's words, _I have seen High Mass at the very foot of the San Marco altar_ , and wonders if this is true.

*

Sketching and committing his memories of the church of Torcello to paper upon his return, Dominic feels that the sharpest contrast between Italy and Russia is the pace and climate of life. There is a decaying desperation to Russia that Dominic, even as the son of a wealthy family, can remember enduring. Here in Italy the warmth and openness of life comes fast on the heels of great thinking, presenting wide-open arms of passionate learning. It culminates perfectly in his discovery of William. And at this he tenses, and saddens, and wonders how, if at all, they will stay together.

*

His master holds a banquet one evening, and Dominic travels the crowd keeping goblets full. When the crowd takes no notice of him he almost feels a part of it. He eavesdrops on the great swells of conversation that take place, some heatedly, some quietly, at all points of the room. There is a young man playing a lute near the front of the room, and his love songs bring even the hardest man in the crowd to tears after a bit of wine. He stops now and then to enjoy it, nursing the small, curious contentment in his breast.

*

"Flemish, are they?" says the new voice, and it tickles Dominic's ear, but not enough to tear him away from the lute player's latest song. "The way it falls and covers; quite impressive." He absently realizes they are talking about the tapestries that run along the hall. "The peacocks go well with the marble."

He turns toward the conversation and sees a stunning blue tunic and hose, a jauntily tilted velvet headpiece, and with the strangest disconnection, realizes that it is William. His insides lurch, tangle, and liquefy in spectacular order, and he very nearly drops the jug he carries.

*

A haze of pipe-smoke passes between William and Dominic but Dominic is already moving, parting the crowd as politely as he possibly can. He doesn't even speak when he reaches his master and William, but simply holds out the jug to William's extended goblet. William glances at him only when the pour is complete, and even then he only hesitates for the briefest of moments, color rushing his face.

"Will you excuse me?" William asks, and Dominic's mind goes messily in a dozen directions.

He notes William's path, waits several minutes, and then follows, praying his absence will go unnoticed.

*

There are, of course, many places for them to hide. They are one of many couples who have undoubtedly decided to make use of the emptiness of the house in comparison to the crowded hall. They end up somewhere near the servant's quarters; Dominic sees the glint of distant candlelight on the silver trim of William's tunic, and follows.

"William?" he whispers, and the shadow motions and, all at once, they are together. William's arms come around his shoulders, fingers closing at the back of his neck. He moans low and drags William's face against his, kissing William hungrily. "William."

*

It's far too dark to get a good look at one another, so Dominic settles for what his body craves, taking the wet thrill of William's tongue into his mouth, working up a slow friction between their bodies. Arousal, sharp and sudden, drives his hands between them, and this spurs William, who seems taken and surprised and desperate, and falls suddenly to his knees, mouthing across the front of Dominic's tunic. Gasping a breath, Dominic's hands fall to William's face.

"You needn't--"

"It is nothing to do with that," William sighs, face pressing cloth, and Dominic bites his lip.

*

_I want more than this_ , Dominic almost says, as William parts and pushes aside his clothing and takes him with hands and mouth, stroking rhythmically until he's rocking back into the quick caresses. He allows the intimacy because it brings a certain, undeniable relief, but what he really wants is a long evening and a soft bed not a stitch of cloth between them. He is cradling William's hair when the inevitable happens, and he bucks and cries out and nearly sinks down the wall, so terribly do his knees wobble. William's mouth kisses damply up his belly and chest.

*

They breathe heavily upon one another. William traces Dominic's face, neck, and shoulders, and kisses follows his fingertips. Dominic shivers.

"Oh, you'll be the death of me. Peace, William, peace," he murmurs, cupping William's cheek and putting inches between them. "How I have missed you."

"It feels as if it's been a century." William laughs. "I have not been faithful to your correspondence."

"It doesn't matter," he replies, and means it completely, but feels a sudden dread at the look on William's face. "What is it, beloved?"

William's smile wobbles, twitches, and fails. He inhales shakily. "My father is dying."

*

Dominic's eyes search the face that he has come to love so fiercely. His chest grows cold with both sweat and fear. "Let us find a room."

Locked securely in a storeroom, they recline atop burlap sacks, and William goes on. Dominic has never heard him sound this defeated.

"I have no control," he says, softly. "There is already... There is a betrothal. A family, with a daughter, that has been chosen. My brother has gone missing. He's probably dead from drink somewhere and despite the fact that he is my senior, it's been decided that I marry and inherit."

*

Pain flowers in Dominic's chest. The obvious solution might satisfy others. Once William is the head of his own house, he could easily buy Dominic back and keep him as a lover. But that is the end of it all, and not what it should be. Dominic has seen the possibilities and cannot now accept such an arrangement.

"It can't be this way," Dominic says, blankly, shaking his head.

"You are leagues beyond our boundaries," William replies, miserably. "I have no choice."

"William, no." He begins to shake. The cruelty of it all crushes the very breath in his lungs.

*

As it is with most declines, things begin to sink far more rapidly than they had risen. Within one season William's father is dead and the date of William's marriage is set. Dominic continues to enjoy more and more freedoms, but William's emotional downturn does much to dampen their world. He attempts to lighten William's spirits with tales of his youth and his opinions of contemporary artists and philosophers. William fills in the gaps of Dominic's new vocabularies and talks of Venetian history for as long as he will listen. And yet there is reality, which no story can vanquish.

*

"I believe that there is a place that people's minds go when they need comfort and reassurance. Like a child clutching his favorite toy I, too, wander often and long my memories of Florence and the time we spent there together," Dominic writes. "I have walked many a day about Venice, since. I have seen things that I would have never seen without an escort. But I have not enjoyed any sight so much as those that I enjoyed with you warm and vibrant at my side. More than even your presence I miss your smile. I miss your joy."

*

"My head fills with my own past realities," he writes, another day, "and it seems almost as if they are pushing out our opportunities, our hope, as they themselves come rushing in. My philosophy texts have depressed me of late. There is nothing comforting in them, only harsh logic that reminds me so of our situation. I turn back to art, as I have done increasingly since Florence, but there is even a cruel sadness in most Italian works. Would that you were the center of all things once more, so that I might ponder the thoughts behind your eyes."

*

Tragedy, on its way down, touches other things, setting them into sickening motion. And so it happens that the very week William is set to marry, a guest at a party in Dominic's house recognizes him from the brothel. This man is a kindly man--one of the customers that demanded little and went swiftly afterward--but under the influence of drink he is loud and announces every thought that comes to his mind. Dominic watches in horror as he tells the sordid tale to the entire table, including his new masters. He feels a small part of himself shrivel.

*

Were it not for the family's sparkling reputation or the fact that the story was told to every friend they have in one grand moment, Dominic might have retained his position. They turn him out as gently as possible considering the circumstances, and with a considerable severance wage and everything he's come to own since he arrived. They pity him, which stings worse than rejection. He hasn't even the time to write to William before he's out on the streets, utterly lost. When he does get the chance he realizes that letters are pointless, and instead goes to William's house.

*

The yellow-haired maid hasn't the courage to sneak him in, but she does bid William to meet him at the usual place by the water. At any other time he would be thrilled to sit near the murky water with William, but instead he is all fear, full of voids. He now understands how William had felt the night that he'd confessed his father was dying. Dominic had been almost frustrated with William's lack of drive to solve all their problems, but now that the same emptiness has settled into his own belly, he sees. He feels drained of will.

*

"Dominic, my God!" is how William greets Dominic, throwing his arms around him and nearly pushing them both into the water.

Words die on Dominic's tongue and, to his horror, he feels a sob rise in his throat. Tears flood the space behind his eyes. He buries his face in William's neck. William has lost weight since they last saw each other, and the feel of bones beneath his skin brings Dominic's tears faster.

"I've been put out," he says, breathing heavily. "They found out about the brothel."

The part of Dominic that was crushed that night twists and bleeds.

*

"Oh, Dominic. Dominic," William sighs, parting their bodies to get his hands against Dominic's face. "Breathe. Breathe for a moment--that's right. There we are. Steady." His fingers press again and again, and Dominic calms, and the glass in his chest softens.

"Come away with me," Dominic breathes, violently clutching William's wrists. "Damn this house, and damn everyone in it. For one evening, come with me."

William's hesitation is brief, lasting only long enough to grant him a single, fortifying breath. "I will come."

The hours loom in front of them, but Dominic shivers numbly the entire way to privacy.

*

They are the same rooms William had him brought to that very first night. He recalls how they had become very drunk, very fast and spoke in riddles and danced about the warm rooms babbling about love and each other. He recalls being startlingly pleasured on that reclined chair. It comes back, sharp at the edges and liquid at the middle. His tears keep coming. William strips away his servant's clothes and wraps him in a fine blanket. He allows himself to be manipulated onto the very same spot upon which they'd made love so long ago. Another world, indeed.

*

William begins to speak, but Dominic stops him. He trembles visibly under the blanket as he opens his arms and drags William against him. "No," he says, fiercely, finally, "none of that. We will speak and speak and end exactly where we'd begun. I won't have it. I want you to say nothing, this moment." He pauses, kissing William's face and neck. He leans until the cushions support his back, and wraps his legs around William's hips. _Make it go away_ , he thinks. _Blind me to all else_.

"Dominic," William exhales, coming atop Dominic more easily than he ever has.

*

"I want you inside of me," he replies, softly, against William's throat, and arches his back. "I want to feel you there always. Do you remember that you promised me always?"

Tears leak across his cheeks and William licks them away, growing hard with a mixture of what seems like longing and sadness. There is a great, gasping urgency to their kisses, and when William pushes inside of him the burn singes lingering pain from every corner of Dominic's soul. He stares at the ceiling, bathed softly in light, and the sweaty hot press of William's rocking body takes him.

*

It is as if their lives have unfolded specifically for the purpose of leading them here. Held fast by the thrusting form above his, Dominic feels a part of himself unravel; he savors the low, wet pain of it, the inexplicable pleasure that comes now and again. He spreads himself and lets his fingers squeeze sweat-stained down William's back, urging him closer. They speak not a word and barely make a sound and the act tumbles tellingly on, and when William gasps and clutches Dominic and spends himself, Dominic sobs and messes the space between them with his own release.

*

The silence afterward consumes them both. Sticky and drained, they merely lie tangled and breathe as one.

"I am to be married tomorrow," William says, as if to say _I am to be executed tomorrow_ , and Dominic lies still and feels nothing. "What can we do?"

"I know what I must do," Dominic says, gently, tangling one hand in William's mused hair. "I must go backward before striding forward. I've spent my chances here, for now. I believe there are more to come, but not unless I understand the past. I look to the sea, again."

"What do you mean?"

*

"I must go back, William. I need to know what I've lost before I can decide what to seek. And I know now that all I do from here forward is my choice alone," Dominic explains, and watches with some pain the effect his words have.

"To Russia?" William asks, voice breaking. His eyes grow very dark when he's upset. Dominic stares at him for a long moment, and knows with very bit of his being that he must now take control of his own life, love for William aside. He cannot force himself to passively accommodate William's new life.

*

"I don't believe I'll stay there," Dominic explains. "I've remembered almost all of it, and I feel I must fill the fuzzy black spaces that still loom here and there in the story. When I have done that, I may return here. I may not. I may pursue art or the study of it or the history of it. I may write books. I can do these things successfully in many places, but I have come to love Italy. And if I still love her after all that she's done to me, it is a great love between us, indeed."

*

He gazes at William. "She gave me you. That has been my greatest gift. You saved my life. You taught me how to defy the dark within myself, and to endure and flourish. You taught me love; you taught me how to cherish life. We have seen beautiful things, done beautiful things. We have learned all over again the flavor of food, the quality of sculpture, and the power of words. But I will not be as a kept woman. I will let you choose your way and I will choose mine, though in every way it breaks my heart."

*

William's eyes glaze with tears that he blinks away. He lowers his face to Dominic's chest, and says nothing at first. When he does speak his voice is hushed.

"It proves true, what I always thought. From the moment I saw you at my father's door, your chin set and your eyes cold, I knew you would outlast me. I saw something in you that was stronger than anything I'd ever felt," he says. "I have shown what I prayed I might keep from you. That I am a bit weak, and a bit selfish, and altogether lost in this."

*

"I love you still," Dominic replies. "Your hesitation proves your loyalty and your thoughtful nature, without which you would not be yourself."

"Pretty words to condone my cowardice, those. How much of that is love of me and how much is pardon? No, Dominic, I don't like it. If I deny that I am making a mistake in this, it would be as if I stood by and said nothing as they beat you--"

"You stir yourself purposefully!" Dominic says.

"Shouldn't I?" William rises to his elbows. "I don't want this, Dominic. It is not selflessness; it is fear."

*

This last gives Dominic pause. His chest empties, and William relaxes just slightly.

"What else is there? Your entire family's future rests on your marriage, on your management of its business."

"But is it mine? It would be the same for almost any man in my place. The same happens everywhere, all over the world, to sons. The burden of family and the family trade. The need for heirs. I care nothing for any of these things. I live a life that is not my own. The only thing I have ever truly held, pursued, and loved has been you."

*

"So then, we have come as far as we may go," Dominic explains. "You have sorted your feelings. I have decided my path. What now?"

And it seems as if all they have done together has been a question of _what now_. A great precipice has always yawned, wide and deep, before each turn they have taken. There are great stores of life hidden betwixt and between these voids, and it is these that they have chased from the moment their eyes met.

William's eyes darken. He tightens his hold on Dominic's body and sighs. "We face now the fear."

*

The evening that Dominic had begged for turns thoughtlessly into two, and then three. On the fourth day they part. With papers and money from William, Dominic books passage on a ship that will take him along the first leg of his journey. He lingers near the ships that day, wondering if the same vessel that brought him to Italy might still be among them. Will chance put him on it again? Would he recognize it? It is hard to imagine anything from that time. He is not the boy that stumbled passively onto these docks one long year ago.

*

There had been no promises made on the fourth day, though Dominic maintains a fierce hope that the strength he saw in William's eyes as they had said goodbye might continue to influence the outcome of this ending. He lingers, cloaked to the ankle and breathing the salty air and eating his fill at vendors along the waterfront, and allows himself, with detached pleasure, to linger upon thoughts of William. He thinks of his body and of his heart. He recalls every moment they've had together and forgets the times they've spent apart. The afternoon peaks, and he prepares himself.

*

"I thought on it later, hours after I was taken from my father's side, and before the ship could truly frighten me into forgetting. The kidnappers were men hired by the family of my intended bride," Dominic had written to William. "A rift between our families; I don't recall the details. My father had been insistent on upholding the agreement--he wanted their land more than they wanted ours--and they had not wanted to. They did not intend to kill me, I don't think, but they wanted me gone and gone far. It's strange to think of it now."

*

"I carry the descriptions of your family inside me throughout the day," William had replied to one of his letters. "I picture your older brother and your mother and father in their lordly, thick dress. I imagine you as a toddler, fat and red-cheeked, rolling about among their boot-clad feet. I see you as a boy, bravely claiming the countryside as your own, outrunning the other boys, and endearing all the young girls to your bright smile. I would see your family and lands. Who can say? Perhaps fate may yet bring us there, to a snowy home far away."

*

That evening he nurses a sweet, sharp drink at a waterfront tavern. William's words _we face now the fear_ keep running up and down his brain like the a hypnotic bit of verse forever looping in a feverish mind. His eyes grow damp, but he staunchly refuses the tears, and orders a bit of food with his second drink.

He recalls the close warmth of the library, and hearing William's shoes upon the floor before looking up to see his face. He recalls lips, red with wine, drawing on his own. He recalls William's vows of loyalty, love, and protection.

*

The noise of the place swarms against his ears until all he feels is a slight vibration from the chair beneath him. The food turns rock-hard in his belly and he thinks about leaving early. One hand turns his cup around, then falls to the tabletop. The very muscles of his heart ache, yet he knows this is the right way.

He is sitting like this, forcing steely strength down his spine, when William sits down opposite him and steals a bit of pork off of his plate. 

"Not bad fare, though I've heard the kitchens here are quite filthy."

*

Dominic smiles, and suppresses the sudden burst of joy that bobs in his chest like a great buoy. "And what would a spoiled banker's son know of filthy kitchens?"

"I turned my bride and her family away today. I gave them half of my inherence to keep them from murdering me." His smile is borderline manic.

Cold and hot cross ways in the pit of Dominic's belly. What to say? This is what he had hoped for as he wandered the shipyard today, calling up every memory that he could to console himself. He sets down his drink. "William--"

*

"I cannot leave yet," William continues, sensibly. "I've written to several cousins, and any one of them might do a decent job in my stead. There are papers to sign and a hundred relations I'm sure I'll have to avoid for the rest of my life, but--"

Dominic breathes faster. "What of your fears? Your doubts?"

"It was easy to be cowardly until the moment of choice. When we parted and I imagined what it would be like if I did not say no to it all, if I were to never see you again, I could scarcely breathe."

*

"You mean to come with me?" Dominic asks.

"If you wish it," William replies, hesitating. It is, after all, a very personal journey. "I will decline without regret if it is something that you feel you must endeavor alone."

Dominic thinks, and then finds himself laughing. "No. No, not this time. This time, I will not have to bear that ship alone, will I? I will bring my light onto this ship, and call it William."

"Flattery is always safest, in times such as this," William says, with a mocking flourish, and Dominic goes on laughing until he cannot breath.

*

Weeks later, it is in a splendid calm and on the cusp of a great love that they climb aboard their ship, carrying almost no material goods between them. They have a long road ahead, and will leave an even longer road behind. And in every step and with each passing day they will recall the events that led them here. They will recall the half-lives they led before and embrace the whole that they two have created. They have found their path of light in a world of darkness and will travel it proudly, side by side, into always. 


End file.
